Excerpt: Abraham’s Daughter

Father’s Day memories

June 17, 2006

Rashaan,
I am sure you will find it odd to open your mailbox and see my letter tucked in with overdue bills and miscellaneous junk mail. Ironic, no? For my letter can seem like either an overdue bill itself or…junk mail. It has been an exercise in and of itself to write it and a battle to decide whether to actually mail it or not. Being who I am, (I wonder if you remember me accurately?), writing the letter was not really a choice. I had to. For my own sake. The choosing came in deciding whether to mail it or not. So I wrote it. Twelve pages. Layered with remembrance, stifled emotions, angry cursive letters…pain. I trudged to the post office on this rainy day to mail the letter. I had addressed it to you but chose not to include my return address or name. I feared you would see that as a caution sign and toss the letter to the side. Yet, the crotchety lady at the front window insisted that I include that information. In her nasally, annoying voice complete with neck rolling and gum popping, she postulated the inability to return the letter to me should it not make its way to you. I had not the strength to tell her that I never wanted to see this letter again. And so, I added some silly name and address to the letter which seemed to satisfy her.

I write this letter on the eve of Father’s Day. It is 11:16pm. Nine years to the day. I wonder if you remember. I’d been to a cookout earlier that evening while you hung out with your cousin G. The one you took to task for saying to me that I looked so fine, he could sop me up with a biscuit. As many times as I’ve heard that phrase I’ve never known anyone other than you to believe that it had sexual connotations. I hung out with my girlfriend B and her family but my mind was miles away. I had a bit of a secret and was biding my time before confirming what I already knew to be true. I waited until 10:30pm and made my exit from the cookout. I drove to Walmart in complete silence, praying that I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. I reasoned that my chances of that happening were slim to none as I’d chosen a Walmart in a distant neighborhood. I shuffled slowly down the appointed aisle, perusing the large number of selections, reading packaging, and finally making my purchase.

I remember trying to hide it among several other miscellaneous purchases - an auto magazine, nasal spray, fuchsia tights, cough syrup. As my purchases were rung up, the young cashier appeared to be very bored, until she came to the kit. Suddenly she became animated and it seemed that her voice could be heard throughout the store. I died of embarrassment multiple times before she finally tossed my purchases in the familiar blue plastic bag and congratulated me. I rushed to the car, tossed my bag haphazardly in the back, and drove home.

At 11:50pm, I walked into the bathroom, opened the pregnancy test and followed the instructions even though I knew. I could’ve sworn that the blue X showed up in the circle before I even unzipped my pants. My suspicions were confirmed. I was pregnant. You were to be a father. At exactly 12:01am, I dialed your number. I could hear the sleep in your voice as I wished you Happy Father’s Day. I felt your smile, heard you say Thank you, tell me how sweet it was that I called you. Your boys weren’t in town yet and you didn’t anticipate speaking to them until later in the day.

You began to lay out your plans for the day, when you’d see them, and I interrupted to tell you again Happy Father’s Day and began to cry softly. I remember you asking, “Baby…are you alright?” I wasn’t. I was pregnant. We were just “friends”. It was Father’s Day. I couldn’t get beyond a tearful series of “Happy Father’s Day” mumblings. It finally dawned on you that this call, these tears were not about you and your boys. It was about us, a mightily fractured us. You would call my name, tell me that it would be okay, try to soothe over the pain and confusion with sugary words. You were ready to dress and drive across town but I did not want that. I needed time to really absorb this news, this change. I assured you that we’d have time to talk later in the day. You were skeptical but gave me that space.

I went to bed with my hand over my stomach, talking to my child, our daughter. Don’t ask me how I knew. I simply did. She told me that her name would be Maya, this child of ours and so, that is how I addressed her from then on.

Morning would find you at my door bearing orange juice, a pregnancy handbook, pickles, and chocolate. I can’t even imagine how strange your purchases must’ve seemed to the cashier. We sat silently, lost in our own respective thoughts. I remember you asking me if I was happy. I said yes. You asked if I was happy that this child was yours. I asked who else’s it could possibly be? I know it wasn’t an answer to your question. But you have to understand that, given you penchant for lacing up your shoes and running away, I was trying to shield myself for what I felt would come eventually even though I carried your legacy in my womb.

The next week brought a trip to an OB/GYN for confirmation. I didn’t want to tell people just yet – everyone says you should wait until you make it through the first trimester. Did you know that I told two of my best friends? I’m sure you suspected it though they would never have let on. I remember Corrine was also pregnant and the thought of our kids growing up together tickled us immensely. We settled into a routine, you and I – somehow trying to piece our relationship together without really calling it that. We began a series of discussions about names, cribs, and whatnot. Day to day, we told ourselves that we were building a family, that WE were truly and finally WE. I remember talking to our baby, Miss Maya Jerre, every day. First thing I did in the morning, last thing I did at night. The doctor said we were two and a half months along. He gave me all kinds of material to read, told me to relax, eat well, exercise…the same things he’d told me before the pregnancy. And so began our trip into parenthood.

It is strange that we somehow thought this child might save us, might bring us together. We thought it, maybe it hoped for it but we never spoke it aloud. I suppose that was too much pressure, even for an angel. The night before I was to cross from first trimester to second, I had a strange dream. I’ve never shared this with you before. Of this I’m sure. I merely tucked it away in my journal. In my dream, I saw our daughter, Miss Maya Jerre, walking along a path full of colorful wildflowers. I called out to her multiple times but she kept walking. She finally turned around, smiled at me and giggled before continuing her journey towards sunshine. I awoke to find tiny drops of blood on my favorite yellow sheets. I showered, dressed, and drove to the doctor’s office though I knew the outcome. Our daughter had decided that she could not stay here. I drove myself home in a stupor.

You called after work and I gave you the news. I couldn’t gauge your response but it didn’t matter. She was gone. You wanted to come over. I said no. You came anyway. I shared the appointment time with you. What I remember most about this is, feeling like I had to convince you to accompany me to the hospital. For me, that spelled the beginning of the end…again. I remember you called your job and gave them some lame excuse, and I wondered why you didn’t simply say that you needed to accompany me to the hospital for outpatient surgery. I remember sitting with my hands over my empty womb as if I could still feel our daughter there.

There weren’t a lot of emotions that morning as we entered the hospital. We were led to a small dressing room where I was asked to disrobe. I remember breaking down in tears at the moment, crumbling to the floor in pain. Wailing. You were so unsure of what to do, what to say. I know my pain was naked, raw, bubbling up and over the surface until I found myself curled up on the floor. You slid off the bench, pulling me into your arms which made me cry even harder. I suppose this wasn’t an uncommon scene for the hospital staff as no one came to check on us or remind us that we had X number of minutes until I needed to be taken into surgery.

Maybe I overdid it with my exposed pain because I remember you bringing me home, trudging to the store to get juice, broth, crackers, and then going home to your own place. I hated you in that moment. I really did. We just lost a child and you were rushing away from me. It never dawned on me until years later that you needed to grieve in your own way. I lay curled deep into my sofa, staring into space, hands once again across my stomach. This is where my memory gets foggy. For years, I told myself that we didn’t have any conversations after that, that we never discussed “trying” again. Maybe it was my way of protecting myself. We were heading nowhere fast, as usual and I didn’t have the strength to fight this downward spiral. I was hurting in new and different ways.

My friend Corinne went on to deliver a healthy son, her second. I remember getting an invite to a baby shower for your cousins Matthew and Jen who had finally adopted a child. Corinne’s son would be more than two years old before I could bear to see him, or to hold him. Corinne understood and never pushed or questioned. I avoided the baby shower for Matt and Jenn. I couldn’t take the pain of watching someone else welcome a baby home coupled with seeing you there. It was too much.

And so, here we are – years away from that loss. Two marriages later, both of them yours. Neither of them involving me. I am astounded by the fact that, as much as you relished fatherhood then, your relationship with your sons has deteriorated to the point that you didn’t even know you were a grandfather until the child was four. And I know you wonder what brought THIS letter on.

I happened to be in the park, just relaxing and unwinding from a long day at work. I saw a father pushing his daughter on the swings. She giggled carefree, begged to go higher which he obliged. Finally climbing down from the swings, she ran crookedly into his open arms, tossed her arms around his neck, and pressed messy kisses all over his face. He scooped her up, twirling her around as she laughed. Finally, she laid her head on his shoulder and said, “Daddy I had fun. I’m ready to go home now.” He kissed her forehead, smiled at me watching them, and said, “OK baby. Let’s go home. I love you Maya.”

I find myself sitting on another bench, wailing. Holding onto my empty stomach. No one’s here to hold me this time.

Always,
~ Tess

¸.•´ .•´¨¨)) Jackie Young -:¦:-
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